


Somewhere I Have Never Travelled

by Ori (magnetium)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-14
Updated: 2007-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetium/pseuds/Ori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abbey keeps the vigil after Jed has an episode and reflects. Set during an unspecified time - I purposefully kept the where and when a little vague. Title stolen from my favourite e. e. cummings poem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere I Have Never Travelled

There is a quietness that descends on Abbey after she has stabilized her husband. When she's checked his blood pressure and respiration, started the IV, and coaxed him to sleep, she sits in a chair by the edge of the bed, watching his chest rise and fall with even, reassuring regularity.

Most of the time, the only physical symptoms are weakness and loss of balance. When he gets confused, she orients him, and when he has trouble speaking, she speaks for him. But occasionally there are the episodes that include muscle spasms, and those are the worst kind. There is nothing more painful than watching him clutch at nothing, arching against the bed, his legs caught mid-kick. The muscle relaxant takes a second to prepare, and another few seconds to take effect as it races through his veins, and even though the time itself doesn't sound like much, those seconds are eternities when she looks into his wide, panicked eyes, and tells him to hold on, just hold on, the drugs are coming.

She always feels a strong desire to crawl into bed next to him, to cradle his unconscious body in her arms, but she doesn't allow herself to recline. She can't begin to relax until hours have gone by and the episode has long since passed. She sits in the chair, watching him breathe, and she clenches the muscles in her stomach so tightly that they are always sore the next day. Abbey is good at holding the vigil - she is both the doctor with no news, and the wife waiting to hear it.

Then, when the sun is starting to come up, she finally allows herself to take off her shoes and lay down beside him. But she doesn't sleep; she dozes, waking every few minutes to watch him, to check his pulse, and to reassure herself that he hasn't left her yet. Once, after staying up almost 48 hours, flying home to reach him from four states over, and then keeping watch over him throughout the night, she fell asleep beside him, and woke up in the morning to the feel of his lips on her neck. He was smiling and telling her how much better he felt, and she had been so pleased to see him coherent and awake, but so very terrified that she hadn't been able to stay awake for him. She worries about the day when he will wake up in the morning and slur his words at her, blinking in confusion when his thoughts don't come out the right way. She worries about the day when recovery will not come in the morning, or the afternoon, or for days. She worries about the day when it will not come at all.

Abbey feels the quietness all around her while she watches him sleep, and she wonders what would be worse, him dying first, or her. The thought of losing him makes something inside of her tremble on the edge of blackness, but as awful as that would be, she hates the idea of leaving him to cope on his own more. She tries to tell herself that if that day ever came, he would have good doctors, professionals who know exactly what they're doing and will give him the right care. But no one knows his body as intimately as she does, and no one will care for it as if it were their own. Because for her, since the day they were pronounced man and wife, his flesh has been as hers. She hates the thought of him lying in a hospital bed without her, sleeping through the night with an empty chair beside him.

Thoughts like these are enough to bring forth tiny pinpricks of hotness in her eyes, a few tears dropping down her cheeks. And when she turns to get a tissue, she is startled by a finger on her cheek, brushing a tear away. He's awake, and smiling at her with such tenderness that she can't speak for a moment.

"Don't cry, Abigail."

She reaches up and takes his hand in hers, holding it against her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed for a second.

"Don't ever leave me, Jed."

He chuckles. "Not for all the tea in China."

"Well, that's something, I guess."

"Come get in bed with me. I'm all right."

She sighs and slides her shoes off, walking around to lie down beside him. He puts his arm around her, and she notices that he does feel stronger. His grip on her is good, not like before, when he could barely make a fist. She curls up against him, her head against his chest, where she can hear his heartbeat, steady and slow.

Recovery is coming now, like it always has before, and even though the day will come when it isn't so near at hand, she recognizes the importance of cherishing these times. There is nothing in the world that makes her feel the same way lying in Jed's arms does, and as she settles into a soft doze, both of them bathed in the dim light of the bedside lamp, she is suddenly struck with a certainty that he will leave her first. But instead of grief, she feels a small bit of relief. When the time comes to begin saying good-bye to Jed, it will be the hardest thing she'll ever have to do, but it will be ten thousand times easier than leaving him alone.

For the times when she won't have these wonderful arms around her, she makes a memory, recording every breath and how his body feels against hers. Then she tucks it away, deep down for safekeeping, and slips into a light sleep.


End file.
